


The Undoing of One Quartermaster

by Nivienne



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nivienne/pseuds/Nivienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is a thought Q tries not to have every time they do this.<br/>He knows that if he does let himself think, he is fucked."</p><p>Q lets Bond take too much from him for the sake of the agent's sanity. At the cost of his own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Undoing of One Quartermaster

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!  
> I'm trying my hand at something new. As it happens, I just wrote this in the last hour, so please, please do feel free to point out any errors I might have made!  
> Comments on my style are equally welcome, I aim to get better. =D
> 
> A few more things before reading:  
> \- There is actual, graphic rape in the next chapter. If you feel uncomfortable with this, feel free to skip.  
> \- I sadly do not own any of the characters I borrowed. Written and posted for entertainment purposes.

There is a thought Q tries not to have every time they do this.  
He knows that if he does let himself think, he is fucked.

Because here is how it is: after every mission, James Bond – codename 007 – comes back to MI6 in the middle of the night, finds his Quartermaster wherever he is, bends him on his desk and shags him witless. There is none of the legendary finesse the agent sometimes displays on the job. Usually Q is working at his office – often on the next PPK to replace the one 007 just lost/exploded/burnt/fed to a Komodo dragon…? – until his crew is gone. He dreads and anticipates Bond’s visits with equal vigour. At some point the door in his back opens and he does not turn. He stops breathing and listens, although he knows he actually never hears the spy coming. Then there is a hand on his throat and one on his belt clasp, working it open. With an economy of movement that speaks of habit, 007 gets the checked trousers out of the way, pins him to his own desk prepares him with two fingers until the tech can more or less accommodate him and fucks him with quick and brutal thrusts. When he is done he straightens his clothes and leaves, while Q – dripping with lube – is still trying to catch his breath.

And trying hard not think: and what if I said ‘no’?

It has not always been like this, Q reminds himself. There was a time their relationship was a simple thing, a thing of beauty: purely professional. Their first mission together was exemplar in this regard. Although Q did bend the rules a little bit for his agent by agreeing to go along Bond’s plan to Skyfall. And he might have been dreaming about blue eyes and warm hands since their first meeting in front of the glorious wrecks.

All right, maybe not purely professional. But it was a harmless crush. Q had no intention to act on it. And Bond was Bond: he certainly had no business in a man like Q.  
*  
The first time it happened, Q had been working for 21 hours in a row, mainly on Bond’s mission. It is always the same story on the protecting missions: nothing happens for days on end, and suddenly everything goes to hell. 007 was responsible for a man that was codenamed “Septimus” for the sake of secrecy. He was in fact a felon that had been passing information on agents to the wrong kind of people. This had led to the death of three employees from MI6. When cornered by a very angry 003, he had claimed he had valuable knowledge. A good think 003 is a real professional: she took the would-be crime lord to MI6 mainly unscathed. 007 was then trusted with the task of escorting the man in France to unearth a large part of his little network. The main difficulty for Bond was to try and not shoot his mark himself, however tempting that might appear. At 2 PM they arrived at the “Printemps”, a magnificent hotel overlooking the Seine. They expected the targets at 9 PM. Three minutes before that, Septimus pointed a gun at 007’s face. The agent was always the quickest.  
He put a bullet in the back of his skull, but only after the criminal had trapped the hotel. 137 victims. At 10 PM Bond dropped off map. At 1 AM the following morning Q was still busy removing all traces of his agent in France, standing alone in the blue light of his giant monitors.  
The door made a pneumatic hiss when opening. Q paid it no attention, focused as he was on the admittedly repetitive task of locating 007 on cameras and erasing evidence. It was not until he felt a warm breath on his nape that he frowned and spun around. Icy blue eyes met his own, barely a few inches away. Unsettled, the tech had gripped the edge of the table behind him and had blinked a few times unable to find something to say. In his defence he had been working for far too long, going without food or sleep. It was only after a moment that the blood seeping through Bond’s shirt registered. 

“Medical’s that way, 007,” Q simply stated. The blue stare did not waver. The tech tried again “We don’t do humans here. If you were partly robot, I could most certainly do something for you.” No answer. “Actually, if someday you are tired of being entirely human, I’m sure we could work something out. There’s a Mad Scientist that lurks in every one of us technicians. And I wouldn’t mind trying a few things on a willing subject.” Still no answer. Q felt more and more like he was trapped between the table and his agent. This is just rubbish, he thought. My branch, my agent, and my damn table: I give the orders here. He straightened up at that thought and his voice grew assured. “How would you feel about a PPK in your pointer-finger? There might actually be a chance that you bring it back for once–”  
The agent’s hand fisted his cardigan on his shoulder and manhandled him towards his office. Too stunned to protest, Q tried not to trip on his own feet.

“007… Bond! What on earth are you doing?”

The agent wordlessly propelled him against the Quartermaster’s desk and Q hit it with a gasp. The locked clicked shut. The windows looking on Q-Branch turned dark, the only light coming from the computer. Q started straightening and spotted Bond behind him in the window he was facing a split second before the agent’s hand on his neck crushed him back down on the desk. Bond pushed his button-down shirt and cardigan out of the way and began tracing rough circle with his palm. Like an animal, Q thought, and he angrily tried to snap out of Bond’s grip, that dangerously tightened. Q stilled, breath on hold. He displayed his hands on the desk to let the agent know he was non-threatening. After a moment, Bond’s hand left his back to grip at his trousers, that he soon pushed past Q’s arse.

“Bond… Bond let’s talk. No, please don’t–”

Q cut himself with a gasp. The hand travelled down his left buttock and reverse. Body tingling, Q tried to take a steadying breath in then out that ended up as an aborted moan. He couldn’t really deny that he may have fantasized… but Q pushed the thought away. The hand movement was both soothing in its predictability and terrifying in its implication. And the other hand constantly reminded Q that he had absolutely no control on the situation. The feeling of a thumb brushing between his arse cheeks forced him to react.

“Lube.”

The touch froze.

“If this goes any further–”

He could not finish that sentence. They were colleagues for God’s sake, he frantically thought. They could not simply… None of them moved for a moment and Q thought he had finally forced some sense into the agent’s mind. The left hand moved away but the right hand remained. Heart pounding Q waited, unwilling to try his luck. He gasped when cold liquid hit his tailbone and ran down. Q gasped and tried to straighten, and the hand tightened harder on his nape, bordering on agonizing pain. He stilled. Two fingers circled around his hole. All he could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears. The fingers suddenly breached him. Q did not dare and move or make a sound. He tried to relax and make the intrusion as tolerable as possible. The abundant lubrication made the pumping easy, if not pleasurable. The gesture was not gentle, but efficient. Not actively painful, but still uncomfortable. Q closed his eyes and started counting in his head. Five seconds to inhale, seven to exhale, and from the top again. It’s just Bond coping the best he can, he soothes himself, he’s not going to hurt you. The fingers started scissoring and Q felt his eyes water. Five seconds to inhale…

Suddenly the fingers were gone. Q had a second to feel relief, as both hands left him. He slowly opened his eyes, preparing to face his agent with as much authority as he could muster in his state. And then he heard Bond’s belt and fly. Q’s hands scrambled on his desk, looking for an anchor. Bond’s right hand pinned Q’s on spot while his left guided his cock into Q’s hole. The tech gasped when he was breached. Neither moved for a second. Then Bond’s left hand gripped Q’s hip and he slammed his hips forward.

Q clenched his eyes shut and bit on his lip to stop the cry of anguish to ever leave his throat. The rhythm of Bond’s thrusts was unforgiving, the desk biting into Q’s thighs. He could feel the flesh swelling under the agent's attack. Bond’s foot kicked Q’s legs wider open and his pelvis hit the desk hard. Bond’s cock hit right on Q’s prostate with every thrust and he could not breath for the feeling of it. Soon his vision started whitening out. I can’t, I can’t come like this, not like this, he pleaded in his head. He tried to resist and suddenly, he was coming. He bit into his sleeve to keep from crying out loud. Bond kept snapping his hips and Q’s over sensitive body soon went into overload. He bit down harder on his cardigan and whimpered. Out of desperation he clenched hard on Bond’s cock and the agent came inside of him with a growl. 

Neither man moved. They just stood there, breathing together. Then Bond pulled himself out and briskly arranged his clothes. Without a look back, he turned and left the office. Q was alone again in the blue light.

“I can’t do this” Q whimpered as he slid down to the floor. He stayed there for what felt like hours, shivering in the impersonal cold of Q-branch, tears drying on his cheeks and lube and come seeping from his swollen hole. Then he pulled himself together. He angrily wiped his face with his sleeve and gingerly stood up. He took a steadying breath and brought his fingers to his behind. It felt sore but undamaged. He probed the puckered flesh and finally pushed inside. The come still felt warm and Q thought he was going to faint. He pulled his finger out and checked: he was not torn. He grabbed a tissue and emotionlessly cleaned the mess. 

It can’t happen again, Q thought. I’ve got to stop this and regain control of the situation. I can’t let Bond do what he wants. I’ll copy the video surveillance and tell Bond not to do something like that ever again if he doesn’t want me to show it to M…

Q was soon accessing the video surveillance tapes. He was about to copy the film when something caught his attention. Bond leaving his office with tears streaming down his face. The tech stopped breathing. His fingers hesitatingly approached the screen. An inch away, his fist closed and he drew in a sharp breath.

Q quietly started to remove all evidence of 007’s presence in his department.

*

Things had not really changed since then and it had become a habit of Bond’s.  
And now, at 4 PM, the day after the agent completed his mission in Belgium, Q expects him back any moment.  
The door hisses open. Q does not look. He walks to his office and blinds the windows. He goes to his desk, pulls his trousers and underwear down. There is a butt plug nestled in his hole. Soon enough, a hand travels slowly from his ribs to his buttocks.

**Author's Note:**

> You probably have guessed: English is not my first language.


End file.
